* * * *
“What do you mean, he left most of the money in trust for the chit?”
“What do you mean, he named Uncle Morgan as one of my trustees?”
Both together: “Damn and blast!”
Mr. Baxley, the late duke’s man of business, wiped his forehead. Where to start? He turned first to the ashen child lost in a tentlike black gown. He had known her all her life; he moved the ink bottles farther out of her reach.
“My dear,” he said gently. “You must know that your father loved you very much and he wanted the best for you. But you are not even seventeen; you cannot set up your own household. Arcott Hall is your home, your uncle is now its owner, therefore it is reasonable for him to be one of your trustees. I, ahem, was honored by the duke to be the other. According to the terms of your father’s will, you will have a generous allowance, and of course the whole of your inheritance will be turned over to you when—”
“Just like that damn fool brother of mine,” Morgan muttered, “handing a fortune over to a female! Soft-hearted, he was. More like soft-headed.”
Emilyann jumped up, indignant to the slur to her father, and nearly tripped on the unfamiliar wide skirts of her mourning gown. “At least he had enough sense not to leave it all to you to gamble away, you .. . you basket-scrambler!”
“And you wonder why you need a trustee? Unmannered brat, you need a keeper! I’ve a mind to—”
Mr. Baxley interrupted hastily. “As I was saying, Lady Emilyann, you will receive control of the principle when you come to your majority, which is the age of twenty-five for females, somewhat older than for males.” He paused while Em’s unladylike snort told what she thought of that piece of jurisprudence, conceived by a man, no doubt.
“Yes, well, as I was saying, when you come of age, or when you marry, whereupon the management of said capital will devolve to your husband.”
“I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t I get my own money then?”
Uncle Morgan grinned. “Ignorant chit. A woman’s property always becomes her husband’s.”
“Aunt Ingrid’s didn’t,” she answered sweetly, changing his grin to a scowl. “But no matter, I shall simply remain unwed until I am twenty-five and then I can be my own woman.”
Morgan had gotten up to pour himself a glass of his brother’s excellent brandy. “That should be easy,” he said between sips. “No sane man would have you. Tongue like a viper, temper of a shrew, about as much sense of decorum as a mayfly, and looks ...” He just shrugged.
Emilyann and even Mr. Baxley, who was fond of her, had to agree with the last affront. Good grief, her father wasn’t dead a fortnight, of course she wasn’t in looks, what with the original shock and the funeral to get through. She had lost weight, giving her face a close, pinched look, with no color to speak of; she’d also lost her ready good humor and sunny disposition, having Uncle Morgan and his family thrust upon her in her grief.
And her dress, well, it had to be black, of course, but it did not have to be the heaviest, scratchiest stuff ever made, with high neck, long sleeves, wide waist, and acres of skirt. The matching poke bonnet did not have to cover her ears, her forehead, and every strand of her hair, but it did. Suffice it to say, Aunt Ingrid had the dressing of her now.
Mr. Baxley tut-tutted in sympathy. “It’s early days to be worrying overmuch of marriage. You’ll be in mourning for a year, naturally, and then you will have to be presented, et cetera.”
Emilyann’s mind wandered, wondering what kind of come-out she could look forward to, with Aunt Ingrid as chaperone. No dancing, no theater parties, no pretty dresses. No, she may as well wait for her twenty-fifth birthday. The only bright spot she could see, her thoughts coming back to the present, was that Uncle Morgan was not looking all that elegant himself. Surely that coat was second-rate and the pouches under his eyes were more noticeable, especially when he’d turned that greenish tint on hearing the terms of his brother’s will. At least he was no happier about it than she was. Good.
Lord, how she despised the man. For years he had been bearing tales to her father about her misbehavior: sneaking off in the bushes with the Stockton boys, when they were only digging worms for fishing; boxing Bobo’s ears, when she had been teaching the clunch to leave her possessions alone. She had been scolded sharply while he, Uncle Morgan, was permitted to dally with Dirty Sal down at the tavern, chouse the stablehands out of their salaries with stacked decks, and make off with a few dozen bottles from the duke’s cellars on every visit. She would never tattle, of course, but Bobo would, or threaten to.
Uncle Morgan always knew where Bobo got his information—the flabby little worm was too dunderheaded to figure such things, although he developed a fine sense of the principle of blackmailing. Morgan paid for his stepson’s silence, loathing his niece more with every farthing. Since the funeral he had been gloating over her, peacocking around, demanding even she call him by his new title. He’d been hard put to show the least sorrow for his brother’s passing, not when he was so busy eyeing each piece of furniture, and every painting and silver platter with a view to its value. He was bound for more disappointment. At least it appeared, from what Mr. Baxley was explaining, that while her father may have left Emilyann in an uncomfortable coil, he left Uncle Morgan worse.
“But you see, my lord—”
“That’s Your Grace, dammit,” Morgan snarled. He wasn’t going to get much out of this, or out of the smirking scarecrow, but he’d get respect, by Jupiter!
“Yes, Your Grace,” Mr. Baxley said. “His Grace, that is, the duke, ah, your late brother, was able to petition the court for such a dispensation. He did move in influential circles, you know.” Inferring, of course, that Morgan did not. “With no male heir extant, no distant cousins or missing branches of the family, it is acceptable, although highly unusual, naturally, for the entailment to pass through the distaff side.”
“Yes, yes, so the brat’s son would be my heir instead of the property and the title reverting to the crown. But what of the rest of his money, man?”
“Ahem. Lady Emilyann’s bequest was by far the largest, with some small pensions for employees, et cetera. The income from the estates follows along with the entailment, which consists of land, titles, the London house, heirloom jewels, et cetera.”
Morgan banged his fist down on the desk. “Will you stop with the et ceteras and get on with it already! How much money will I have?”
Emilyann poured Mr. Baxley a cup of tea. He needed it. “Thank you, my dear. As I was trying to explain, Your Grace, the rest of the late duke’s fortune was his own, to do with as he chose. He chose to leave it in trust for the next heir, either your son, if there should be one, or Lady Emilyann’s firstborn. The money would be, again, held in trust until the birth of the child, then given to his parents to administer.”
Morgan’s ears perked up. “Ah, and I suppose I am one of the interim trustees there, too.”
“No, Your Grace. There is a considerable sum involved, you know, and the duke considered it safest left with his financial advisers.”
“Oh, well,” Morgan said, almost reconciled. “I never thought the old stick would leave me more than he had to. So tell me, how much am I worth?”
Emilyann showed great forbearance, merely plopping a lump of sugar into her tea with more noise than necessary.
“That’s a difficult question, Your Grace. The holdings are extensive, certainly, but they also require a great deal of reinvestment to maintain.”
“But if I sell the lot? How much then?”
“Oh, you cannot do that, my lord, it’s all entailed. Otherwise His Grace could have left you out entirely.”
Morgan could not dispose of the properties outright, but that did not stop him from trying to bleed the estate in any way he could: dismissing most of the household staff, not fixing the roof, selling off the racing stud. As he told his angry niece, he was not about to maintain the place for
her
comfort. He was long gone back to London and the gaming halls, taking Ingrid with him for a last-ditch effort to turn her up sweet enough to try for a child. She was not much more than forty. Stranger things had happened. Her conceiving would have been lucky; her cooperating would have been a miracle.
A great many new temptations were open to Ingrid as a duchess. She prayed for the fortitude to resist. They took Bobo, thank goodness, after loyal Jake searched his luggage and restored the snuff boxes and pearl-handled silverware.
Morgan returned to the country occasionally after that to see how else he could beggar the properties to settle his losses. When Emilyann complained, he threatened to throw her out completely, except they both knew he wouldn’t. He would only lose the heavy fees he extorted for “administering” her estate. So her allowance, which once looked so generous, had to go for Nanny’s pension after Morgan turned her off, for making repairs to the tenants’ cottages, and for buying wood for the fireplaces so the unused rooms of Arcott House would not succumb to dry rot from the damp ceilings.
Emilyann barely had enough funds for new dresses, which hardly mattered, since she was in mourning and never went anywhere or saw anyone. She could have changed to gray or lavender for half-mourning, as the depressing year wore on, but her one effort at economizing by trying to sew up a new gown herself merely created more rags for rubbing down her mare—whose feed she also had to pay for out of her own funds.
If nothing else, the long, lonely months made Em rethink her ideas about marriage. If living under her uncle’s thumb was this dreary, she’d go to London as soon as the year was up and find a sweet boy she could manage who could overlook her lost-waif appearance and dowdy clothes in favor of her dowry. She would wed him before the cat could lick its ear. She’d grow to be like Cousin Marietta, finding her dreams of romance between the covers of a book, which was a sad enough fate for a seventeen-year-old girl to contemplate. There were, of course, worse fates.
“Marry Bobo? You must be more addlepated than he is, Uncle.” Emilyann laughed as she took a comfortable seat in her father’s study. Morgan was already at ease behind the desk—her father’s desk—and he was already half disguised, she guessed from the bottle and glasses and the half-baked idea he’d just proposed for her future. She laughed again. “I wouldn’t marry Bobo if he was the last man on earth.”
Morgan’s eyes glittered as he poured another refill. “He is, as far as you are concerned. That way all the money gets tied up in one neat little package. Your money, the heir’s trust, the estate, all in the family, heh-heh.”
“Yes, and all in your greedy hands, I suppose. I do congratulate you though; it’s a brilliant scheme, from your viewpoint. Unfortunately, Uncle, that horse won’t run, I’m afraid, because there is just no way in hell you can make me marry that nodcock. My year of mourning is nearly over and I have decided to go to London to find myself a husband.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” Her uncle snickered. “
I
ain’t about to provide for your come-out, and you cannot do it on your own. Besides, in case you’ve forgotten, my dearest niece, I am your trustee. You cannot marry without my permission. Oh, you could run off to Gretna with some romantic young fool just to spite me, but you better pick a well-heeled one, for you won’t see a groat of your money until you are twenty-five. No, there will be no presentation, no pretty new frocks and geegaws, no half-pay officers or second sons. Just Bobo.”
This was no longer laughable. Emilyann could feel herself beginning to perspire in the wretched wrong-season black gown. She got up to pace around the room, trying not to notice the new stains on the fine Aubusson carpet. By all that was holy, the man was serious!
“Come now, Uncle, Bobo could not want to marry me. He thinks I’m a bluestocking. Most likely because I know how to read. We wouldn’t possibly suit.” Now, that was one of the biggest understatements of Emilyann’s life, but she was trying to maintain a little politeness, trying very hard not to lose her temper and start another shouting match with her uncle, who only ended up taking his anger out on the servants or the horses. “You remember, just this Christmas I had to box his ears to keep him from bothering the upstairs maid. He does not even like me.”
“Nevertheless, he’ll marry you. Soon.” Morgan wore a self-satisfied smile. He picked up a piece of paper from the desktop and raised his glass in salute to the legal-looking document. “Special license. Damned expensive, but worth every penny.”
Emilyann stopped her pacing. “You can keep me from London, Uncle, and keep me from marrying any other man, and even keep me like an indigent prisoner in my own home, but you cannot make me wed that slimy toad.”
Morgan tossed down the remainder of his glass and stood up, coming around the desk to confront his recalcitrant niece face-to-face, bloodshot eyes to flashing blue ones. “You will, girl,” he said dangerously, no longer smiling. “Because a lot can happen in what? Eight years till your majority? A lot can happen in a week, my proud lady. I can leave you here alone with Bobo, for one. He ain’t no relation of yours, so your reputation would be in tatters. No man would ever look at you again, at least not in any honourable way.”
“I don’t give a fig for my reputation, and Aunt Ingrid would never countenance such a thing anyway,” she said disdainfully.
“Ingrid is in Cheltenham playing the grand duchess to her old neighbors. Then, too, perhaps she’d approve, to make the boy a lord. Enough of the ready, a handsome gift to Prinny, the heir’s father’s got to be a viscount at least.”
“The
heir!
You think I’d ever let—that Bobo and I—” she sputtered.
“As I said, a lot could happen in a week. Maybe I would let dear Beauregard try to convince you. A lad his size can be quite persuasive. Not very polished in his address, I’m afraid, but Bobo was never one to concern himself over taking what others did not want to give.”
He could not have meant what she thought he meant. Not even this dastard could be so low to threaten his own brother’s child! Too angry to be frightened, too incensed to mind her tongue, she screamed at him: “You miserable, craven leech! That’s all you’ve ever been, a dirty bloodsucker. No wonder my father left his will the way he did, so that you couldn’t destroy everything he loved. It’s only too bad he had to name you my trustee, but I suppose he was too high-minded to suspect even you of such abominable behavior. Trustee, hah! I wouldn’t trust you to oversee a pile of manure, and you won’t destroy me!” she raged unwisely. “I’ll go live with Nanny. So there.” And she shook her fist at him.